Sinner
by beautifulxxxchaos
Summary: The Seven Deadly Sins fall under the same category as Love for him: chemical defects, trivial, spurred on by human emotion and thus a detriment to those who wish to succeed. John Watson might be the one person who can shake his carefully constructed disassociation from such matters. And when along comes a spider, who knows what the detective might do. Johnlock, drugs, eventual smut
1. Pride

_**Alright, here's a general warning for you all: I generally don't have more than a vague plot idea in mind before I start to write a fic. Because of this, I don't know what tags to include until I write something and think that it might be important to include a tag for it, just in case. So... sorry about that. I'll update the tags as I go along!**_

_**You can find me over at Tumblr. My url is xstarxchaserx . tumblr . com. Pop on by. I do love to make new friends!**_

To tell Sherlock Holmes that he was vain would be a gross understatement.

When he got dressed, he chose only the finest clothes to put on. His suits were tailored to show off his long, lean figure, always dark so they accentuated his pale skin. His dark curls were always an organized disaster, done in a way that made him consistently look just this side of debauched. He could do things with his eyes that made it seem as though he was looking into your very soul.

And in his own way, that's precisely what he was doing. In a single glance, he could tell who you were sleeping with, what kind of job you held, what kind of house you lived in, if you had any animals, and- more importantly- whether or not you were the latest criminal he was hunting. He knew everyone's dirty secrets, especially the ones they wanted to hide the most. He was rarely ever wrong.

Everyone else was almost _always_ wrong.

When John Watson walked into the lab at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, Sherlock did his usual round of deductions. Military. Doctor. Invalided. Psychosomatic limp. No connections. No real ties to the world. In need of a flat mate. Stubborn. Kind to a fault. Attractive-.

Well, that wasn't something that usually popped up into Sherlock's examination of an individual.

He shrugged it off and asked, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It was all there in the stubborn set of the man's shoulders, the way he stood as though he forgot about his limp, the veiled look of awe, confusion, and... fear? Yes, fear. How long had it been since someone had looked at John H. Watson? Really looked at him?

He'd be perfect for Sherlock. A wonderful distraction. His military service and medical knowledge may even come in handy. He would only last a short while, of course. He was so plain, so obvious to read, hardly challenging at all. Two weeks maximum would be all it would take.

He gave the man the address anyway, knowing without a doubt that he had piqued enough curiosity to guarantee he would at least take a look at the place.

And he did show up, right on time. Punctual, to be expected from his time in the military and as a surgeon where time was of the essence. Neat, as well, from his comments about the flat. Sherlock decided tidying up his chaos wasn't an unruly compromise.

But it would have to wait because there were police lights flashing on the living room ceiling. A fourth suicide. Just in time to keep him from crawling up the walls with boredom, perhaps utilizing the contacts he still kept in touch with who knew precisely how to mix his cocaine in order to give him the best high. Only the finest quality, of course, the cleanest needles slipping into his skin-.

He shook himself slightly, just as Lestrade came up the steps.

"What's different about this one?"

"She left a note."

"Text me the address."

Three sentences, and the detective was gone and Sherlock was jumping about, ranting about how it was like Christmas and pulling on his unnecessarily long coat and that dark blue scarf he knew made his eyes look just a bit more mysterious and then he was half way down the stairs while Mrs. Hudson made John a cuppa...

_John._

The doctor. The soldier. The one with the psychosomatic limp that was begging for some action just so it could find its purpose and be useful again instead of just being a prop to drag the man from one useless therapist appointment to another.

Of course he was good at what he does. Of course he had seen violence and death. More than enough for a lifetime, as he said, of course, but...

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God yes."

Yes, he was going to provide a nice distraction.

Or, at least, Sherlock had hoped so. Turns out, John Watson was just as boring as everyone else. He didn't really look at things, not in the important ways. He asked permission from Lestrade, looked offended when Sherlock dragged peoples' personal lives through the mud, and still limped about with his cane and didn't seem any closer to relinquishing it. The only interesting thing was the fact that Sherlock was wrong about Harry, calling her John's brother instead of sister. Sherlock was rarely wrong, and the blow had him bustling about the crime scene with more vigor and authority than usual, trying to make up for it. He was convinced that was the end of John's ability to entertain him.

"That's fantastic," John said, seemingly unaware that he was doing so.

It... amused Sherlock.

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

"Sorry. I'll just shut up then..." he said, ducking his head.

"No... It's fine."

_Use for John Watson Number One: Reinforcement of Internalized God-Complex._

Maybe he wouldn't be so boring after all.

His moral compass might get in the way, though. He was strong enough to survive a visit with Mycroft, but too loyal to take the money. Unfortunate, really, since they could use it while Sherlock's trust fund was still being held out of his reach. He was also rather adverse to the idea of using more than once nicotine patch, but Sherlock supposed the doctor would frown upon the idea of tourniquets being involved more than a slight nicotine overdose. Compromise. That was the key to successful interactions, right?

John didn't ask many questions. He sent a text without asking why. He didn't ask whether or not Sherlock was the killer when he saw the pink case set out on a chair. He didn't push the question of contacting the police. He didn't even ask where they were going.

He did ask about things like girlfriends and boyfriends, which was so dull that Sherlock thought about just leaving him there until he realized that the man was probably hitting on him.

He quashed down the panic that rose in his throat at the thought and told him the truth. Sherlock Holmes was married to his work. Nothing would change that.

John accepted it with aplomb.

Why did Sherlock still want to take the candle- with all its cast shadows and romance in spades- and toss it at something?

But there was no time for thoughts like that.

They were off, chasing the taxi through the streets of London. John hesitated only a moment before jumping between the roofs, before darting through traffic, before following a madman on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. A tourist. Pathetic. More running, away from the police this time, and back to Baker Street.

The cane, once it was returned, never quite made it past the downstairs landing. There was no longer a need for it.

Sherlock smiled triumphantly.

But then there was that drugs bust and he had to watch the image of himself that John had slowly been building up in his mind shatter upon the discovery that drugs were more than a valid reason to search the place. A pain, sharp and hot, wove through Sherlock's chest and tasted bitter on his tongue with all the words and reassurances he wanted to say.

Well, that never happened to him.

Guilt? How pedestrian.

Pedestrian.

"Shut up! Everyone, just shut up!"

The pieces were there, right there, just one more connection...

Ah-hah!

Pedestrian. Walking. Who would want to walk through London in a rainstorm? Why would a business man walk to the tube? Why would a drunk woman be allowed to keep her car keys? What would get you from point A to point B without seeming out of place?

Hadn't Mrs. Hudson said something about a taxi?

* * *

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a proud man. He was arrogant, cocky, vicious about it. He was a genius, after all, so it wasn't unfounded.

Listening to this man, this _imposter_, comparing himself to the great Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was disgusting.

But, oh, there was a sponsor, a fan. Someone willing to put together a game meant to lure in Sherlock Holmes. A game designed just for him. Someone who might just be clever enough to play on the same field as him.

There was just the matter of the pills to take care of first.

The pill was raised to his mouth, almost pressing against his lips. This would be it. He was right, of course he was right. There was no way he could lose now. He was clever. Smart. Smarter than everyone else _and he fucking knew it. _There was no way this... piteous, feeble-minded, poor excuse for a criminal could ever outsmart him.

Right?

There wasn't a lot of time to contemplate the idea because, just before he placed the pill on his tongue, there was a gunshot. It quite obviously clipped the brachial artery. The cabbie would die.

So a bit of torture wouldn't be too terrible, now would it?

It worked, of course. Sherlock got a name. Between Moriarty and the mystery of the shooter, he should be kept busy for quite some time.

Or rather, between Moriarty and John Watson, he should be kept busy for a while.

John Watson, the doctor, the soldier, the man who had an infernal affection for jumpers and doing what's right and a moral compass that guided the way he breathed, had just killed someone for a man he had known for just over 24 hours.

_Interesting. _

And then they laughed at a crime scene and had a run in with Mycroft and recovered John's gun from the alley where he had stashed it before the police arrived and got Chinese food to take back to Baker Street, back to their flat.

John Watson was a challenge.

But Sherlock Holmes was a proud man and would do whatever it took to unravel all the mysteries that he contained.

He did love a good game.


	2. Envy

Two weeks had turned into two months rather quickly.

John was more interesting than Sherlock had previously imagined. There were so many contradictions in his behavior, it was difficult to piece them all together. The first morning in the flat, Sherlock woke to find him sitting at the kitchen table with a freshly poured cup of tea, the paper propped up against the back of the microscope so it could be read without hands, and John's gun field stripped and being thoroughly cleaned by the man himself. Sherlock hovered in the doorway, his robe half falling off his shoulders, hair a disaster, and could only watch as the cleaning brush swept in and out of the barrel, liberally coating it with oil, before John moved on to the next piece. That gun probably felt the same way people did when they came under Sherlock's scrutiny- exposed, bare, naked...

"I made a pot of tea. There's plenty there for you to have a cup or two as well."

Sherlock went to respond but realized that you actually need air in your lungs in order to make your vocal cords work. He cleared his throat to hide the sharp inhalation.

"Thank you."

"And I tried to find something for breakfast, but there were fingers where the butter's usually kept and the bread looks like it may as well be an experiment of yours at this point. I wanted to wait until you were up before I headed out to Tesco to pick up some things. Anything specific you want?"

"Doesn't matter. I hardly eat."

"I know. Just figured I'd ask."

Sherlock hesitated before bringing the tea to his lips. "No lecture about proper eating habits then?"

"I've known you for two days. Would you honestly listen to me?"

The response was a faint hum that John took to confirm his suspicions. He clicked the slide back into place, Sherlock following his movements carefully.

"How often did you have to use a gun while you were in Afghanistan?"

"Often enough."

"Often enough to lead to you having night terrors? Or are they just from when you were shot?"

The change was subtle, but Sherlock noted it all the same. John's shoulders squared off, he sat up straighter, his hands clenched into fists for half a second before he released them. He didn't look up at Sherlock, choosing instead to focus on repacking his cleaning kit while he asked, "I'm sorry if they disturbed your sleep last night. I was so exhausted, I didn't think to warn you."

"With a psychosomatic limp and a therapist who claimed you had PTSD, you were bound to come with night terrors."

He nodded and stood, closing the newspaper before bringing his now empty mug to the sink and rinsing it out. Sherlock watched the way he held the gun when he was just transporting it, gently, as though it weren't something dangerous and misunderstood.

He had done the shopping, brought over two boxes and a bag of his things from his own apartment before settling himself in to the room upstairs. Sherlock grew used to his daily routine, soon found himself dragging John along on all his cases, happy to find that John was more than willing to skip off a few minutes early from the clinic where he started working or escape from a night out on the town to hunt down some criminal or another. The Yard had gotten used to seeing the doctor tagging along. Donovan still berated him with snide remarks about being a sidekick and/or being just as insane as Sherlock was. Anderson didn't like another medical professional encroaching on his territory.

Lestrade, however, was more than welcoming to John. They discussed football, women, cars, different pubs around the city. Sherlock often found himself distracted by their interactions and would end up calling John over just so he could prove all John's theories wrong or- very rarely- add his own expertise and theories to the mix. He was usually wrong, but he would sometimes help Sherlock down the right path.

One day, though, he didn't come over. He asked Sherlock to wait.

"Sherlock, I know it's not important. You're just going to tell me I'm wrong anyway, so let me finish up this chat. Just a minute or two, yeah?"

It took Sherlock half a minute to close his mouth properly. Why did the body do that? Drop the mouth open when you were in shock. How ridiculous of a reaction?

How did a man like John, small, unassuming John, with his jumpers and laugh lines, stand up to Sherlock Holmes?

He watched the interaction between John and Lestrade carefully. It was a conversation about women. That wasn't important at all. There was a dead body lying in the middle of the floor and they were talking about tips on how to get over a woman who broke your heart.

"John." Sherlock winced at the whine in his own voice. John ignored him. "John," he tried again.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Sherlock," John said before turning back to Lestrade. "Tomorrow night, we'll meet at the pub, yeah? I know tonight's going to be all this case, but tomorrow we can sit and talk. I'll buy you a pint."

"Thanks, mate. I appreciate it. Go see what he wants."

The roll of his eyes, even though John's head was turned away from him, was practically flashing in neon colors to Sherlock.

"What are your thoughts on the way she was bound?"

"Her own stockings. Not unusual. No defensive wounds, though, so how would he have gotten them off of her...? They don't seem to be torn or anything... Perhaps he grabbed them out of her dresser? But no... She's dressed in work attire, but it's a dress so she would have felt it necessary to wear stockings..."

Sherlock's mouth was doing that thing where it opened itself in shock again because everything John was saying was true.

"This is the only one like this, right? We're just here because she's a high profile victim, right?" Lestrade nodded in response to John's question. "It was her boyfriend then, or her lover. One or the other because I'm pretty sure she's trailing along two blokes. Started out as consensual, got aggressive. Lover could have asked her to leave the boyfriend and she refused. Or the boyfriend could have taken advantage of the situation-. No. Time of death. Just a few hours ago. Lover then, while the boyfriend was still at work."

He looked up at Sherlock. "So, how wrong was I?"

Sherlock didn't speak.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?"

"You weren't wrong."

"About anything?"

"Correct."

"Really?"

"Don't make me repeat myself, John, it's dull."

So Sherlock launched into a complete detail of all the evidence he had seen and gathered. It took only a few minutes for him to go through the victims contact list and find the lover. Lestrade dispatched some officers, the coroner took over, and that was the end of that. Sherlock was contemplating which restaurant they should order from. It wasn't a particularly interesting case, so maybe just the Chinese place. Indian was for mildly interesting cases, Angelo's was for very interesting cases, and Chinese was for the not so interesting ones. Maybe he should ask John what he'd prefer.

"Well, mate, looks like we can go to the pub tonight if you'd like. Nothing left to do here. Open and shut," John was saying to Lestrade.

"Sure, yeah. Once the arrest comes through, I'll be about an hour with the paper work. Say Sullivan's at 7:00?"

"Great. I'm already looking forward to the crisps."

"Thanks. I do appreciate this. I don't wanna be drinking alone. That's just not a good road to start down."

"Anytime, Greg. Well, Sherlock, are you coming? We should clear out so they can finish up here."

They make their way off the scene and into a cab back to Baker Street.

"We always get take away after a case ends."

Sherlock's not sure why there wasn't any preamble to that, but there it was anyway.

"Oh. Sorry. Greg's going through a bit of a rough time-."

"First name basis with him already? I don't even call him _Greg_."

"Haven't you noticed? He and I hit it off pretty well. We're just going out for a drink and some bar food. Talk, chat, watch the game. His wife's leaving him, you know. I'm just being a friend. I would have invited you along but-." Sherlock felt the look of distaste and mild horror cross his face and John laughed. "Precisely. So, you can handle take away without me, right? Or I can pick something up on my way back from the pub for you if you'd prefer."

"Forget about it."

"Sherlock-."

"It's fine, John. No worries."

The rest of the taxi ride passes in slightly awkward silence. Sherlock's aware of John's furtive glances, the slight tremble in his left hand, the worry lines on his forehead, but he can't find any words to explain why it's not actually fine. They had a routine, that's all. John was messing it up. It was an inconvenience. It didn't actually _hurt_.

But that night, Sherlock stared at the ceiling in his usual thinking pose, trying to sort through what exactly his problem was. He stayed there until he heard John's footsteps on the stairs, slightly heavier with the alcohol blurring some of his usual care. The door to the flat opened and the smell of food and the smoke from the bar hit Sherlock immediately.

"I picked up Chinese on the way back. Dumplings, just like you like, and some friend rice. Figured you wouldn't have gotten anything for yourself."

It was almost impossible to keep the smile suppressed as John spoke.

"Damn it, Sherlock, move yourself over. I got myself some food too, and I'd like to be able to use the coffee table too, you know."

Sherlock swung his legs around and saw that John was taking the food out and laying it out on the table already. It smelled delicious.

Chinese food and John after a case. This was how it was supposed to be.

Then it hit him, what he had been feeling earlier.

Jealously.

How disgusting.


	3. Gluttony

It had been three weeks without a case.

Sherlock had shot the wall, broke three strings on his violin, ran every experiment he had the supplies for, instigated John, watched the telly, read several books, slept, walked through London looking for a fight, and even willingly ate the food John would leave sitting in front of him while he glowered at the coffee table.

He almost texted Mycroft.

Three weeks without a case and all because Sherlock didn't realize Anderson's wife was at the crime scene. Who brings their wife to a crime scene? A crime scene where their lover is also working? Who could be so bloody stupid?

Lestrade told him a month at least. _At least._

He wasn't sure he was going to make it.

Then John decided to leave for the weekend.

"It's just two nights, Sherlock. Two nights with Sarah. I really like her, so I hope you understand. We're not even going far, just half an hour away."

"But I'm bored, John. I'm going crazy. I'm going to lose my mind."

"No, you won't. It's too big for you to lose track of it. You'll survive, Sherlock."

And he was gone.

But the truth was, Sherlock wasn't sure he could survive a weekend with John away while he was in such a state. It had been bad enough when he was simply dating Sarah. It was a relationship in the workplace. They saw each other all the time. John would talk about her constantly. They went on dates every Friday night. John had just started spending the night at her house. The first time Sherlock had seen him after one of these nights spent away, he noted the disheveled hair, the rumpled clothing, the smug smile that refused to go away, it had almost made Sherlock throw up. He was just jealous of the time John spent with other people. He had come to terms with that. John was a good conductor of light, always making Sherlock feel brilliant. It was convenient having him around. Any time spent away was infringing on that.

Perhaps that's all Sherlock needed. Something else that could help him conduct that light, make him shine. He needed something challenging, a case, something that could help him focus on one thing instead of on all the noise that was constantly running around inside his head.

He lasted until Saturday afternoon before he made the call from the payphone three streets over that he was 95% sure that Mycroft was not tracing.

An hour later he was slipping a 50 into the hands of a man outside of the convenience store where he had just purchased a pack of cigarettes. Let Mycroft think it was one vice instead of another. That would help keep him off the trail.

Back at the flat, Sherlock dug out the kit he had tucked away months and months ago beneath the floorboards in his bedroom. He sat on the couch and placed the wooden box carefully onto the coffee table. He laid out his supplies: a fresh needle, the elastic band he used as a tourniquet, the bottle of saline he would use to mix the solution. He pulled the baggie out of his pocket, the white powder a familiar sight that had Sherlock's senses on edge. How long had it been?

He had tucked his kit under the floorboards two days before John had moved in. He promised himself when he put it there that the next time he touched it would only be because he needed it. Because he couldn't live unless he had another hit. Because there was nothing else that could shut off the noise.

Then there was John. Brilliant, confusing, perplexing John. John who always knew how to put Sherlock in his place when he needed it, listen when he wanted it, and give as good as he got. John who didn't mind the violin playing at three in the morning so long as it was actually music. John who frowned upon using nicotine patches as a stimulant. John who looked shattered when he discovered the drugs bust could have been so much worse. Could have been real. John who hadn't stopped looking for track marks since that day.

John who left him to spend the weekend away with his girlfriend.

John who would come back in a moment if Sherlock asked him to.

Because he would, wouldn't he? He'd left dates before. He'd left work before. He dropped everything for the adventures, for the cases, for the running about London.

But would he drop everything for Sherlock?

And what would he do when he found the evidence of Sherlock's habit resurfacing? Sure, the high would be gone by the time John arrived the next day, but the man was a doctor. A damn good doctor. He would know something was different. He would be able to tell because it was John and he was brilliant at the absolute worst times.

And he wouldn't come back after that. He would leave. That was always the invisible line in the sand. John wasn't above shooting cabbies to save a stranger or breaking into peoples' flats, but drugs? They were the final straw. His sister was an addict. Her drug of choice was alcohol. It destroyed her life, ruined her relationships, and he hates her for it.

He would leave and that would be it. There would be no possibility of ever going back.

In just six months, had Sherlock really grown so dependent on the man that he needed him there to help him through his rough times? Needed him to help him shine? How pathetic was that?

_Oh._

That single thought helped him more than all the stints in rehab ever had. His phone was out of his pocket and he sent a single line of text.

_**I need you to come home. It's an emergency. Please. -SH **_

He waited, watching the clock, as a minute passed, then two. Perhaps he wouldn't come home. Perhaps he had already started extricating himself from Sherlock's life without the detective knowing. Perhaps the body parts in the fridge or the bullet holes in the wall had done it. Something. Why would anyone willingly stay living in a flat with Sherlock Holmes for an extended period of time? Surely even Sarah could provide him with a more suitable living arrangement, even with how dull she was. Maybe John didn't actually like the excitement. Maybe Sherlock was too much.

Maybe Sherlock wasn't enough.

_Ding._

The chirp from his phone seemed so loud in the silence of the flat that he jumped slightly.

_**Be there in 25. -JW**_

Sherlock brought his hands together in front of his face, resting his fingertips against his lips, stared at the items on the table before him.

And waited.

24 minutes later, John threw open the door to the flat and stopped dead in his tracks, taking in the scene in front of him.

"Sherlock..."

No response.

"Sherlock, please, look at me."

John had moved closer, so when Sherlock looked at him, he was looking up into his face. John's hand came up and cupped his chin, turning his face from side to side, checking for the obvious signs of a cocaine high. Fixed and dilated pupils, elevated heart rate. It didn't help much that Sherlock's body decided to respond to John's touch that way anyway. John pulled up his sleeves, checked for new marks, and checked all the supplies on the table, never speaking a word, until he finally sagged down on to the couch next to Sherlock.

"What were you thinking?" The anger was there, as Sherlock had suspected it would be, but it was overlain with hurt so thick it made Sherlock's throat tighten up in response.

"I was so bored, John. There's always so much noise, and when I get bored... I can't block it out. It never stops. It never goes away. Three weeks without a case, all my experiments are exhausted, and then... then you were gone too. I couldn't handle it. Everything just got so loud and I needed it to stop."

John was silent for an uncomfortable amount of time that was probably only 15 seconds or so. It felt like a lifetime to Sherlock.

"Why didn't you follow through? Why text me?"

Sherlock wanted to say that it was because he was a better addiction than cocaine. Lasted longer, provided enough entertainment, helped focus his thoughts, provided company... But he knew that wouldn't go over well.

"I've never had someone in my life who I genuinely didn't want to disappoint until you came along. You're... you're my friend, John. If I had done this, you would have left. Sure, you would have stayed for a little while, tried to help me through it, see me through rehab, try to fix me, but it wouldn't have worked. You would have left eventually and never come back. I don't want to consider what would happen in that event."

The pause this time was longer, but Sherlock couldn't discern what was going on in John's head. His face was wiped clear, obviously on purpose, until the moment he made whatever decision he was working up to.

"Sherlock, I'm going to get rid of this, of all of this. I'm not going to mention it to Lestrade or Mycroft or anyone. This is going to be between us. But I am going to destroy every last item in that box. I am going to flush the cocaine. I am going to crack the syringe. I'm going to toss the bloody box into the fireplace. While I'm doing that, you're going to shower and put on something respectable like you usually do. Then we're going to go out to Angelo's and you're actually going to eat something. I don't care if it's just an appetizer, but you're going to eat. Then we're going to go exploring the city. There's a club not far from Angelo's that's been having a bit of a problem with street fights in the alleyway next to it. It could be dangerous.

"But before all that, you're going to promise me that the next time this happens, the next time it gets this bad, you're going to tell me, just like you did this time, though hopefully before you go and actually waste the money on the drugs. I wouldn't have gone this weekend if you had explained to me how bad you were getting. I need to be told things directly, especially when something is actually bothering you, because you are such a drama queen sometimes, I can't tell when you're being serious or not. Alright?"

Sherlock nodded. John was better than he deserved, and he would promise anything so long as it meant he was going to stay.

"Good. Now, go shower."

Sherlock did as he was told, leaving John to destroy the last vestiges of Sherlock's life before him.

At Angelo's, Sherlock took a bite from his second piece of banoffee pie.

If he was going to have one, gluttonous vice, he decided, pie might just suffice.


	4. Sloth

They didn't talk about The Incident after that night. Sherlock noted that John stayed home more often than he had previously. When Sherlock asked about Sarah and whether he would be going out with her that Friday night as usual, John had shrugged.

"I don't think it's working out between us."

"Really? You said you really liked her."

"Yes, well, sometimes that's not enough."

That was the end of that conversation. The Yard still hadn't given Sherlock any cases. The website wasn't providing any cases more intricate than a lost dog. He spent his days mainly on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. John had asked Molly to send over anything interesting she had, but so far, her autopsies had been run of the mill, nothing out of place. It wasn't until just over a week after The Incident that John really started to worry about what was going on with Sherlock.

Sherlock had simply... stopped. He wasn't pacing, he wasn't shooting walls, he wasn't even playing his violin. He stayed on the couch. The only times John had seen him move were when he got up to use the bathroom, shower, or go to his bedroom to sleep. He left the door open on purpose, so that John would be able to keep an eye on him. It was meant to be reassuring, but John found himself even more worried by the sentiment.

Another week passed, and seeing Sherlock wearing the same pajamas he'd been wearing for the previous 3 days and still refusing to eat anything pushed John over the edge. On a trip to Tesco to pick up food (because someone in the damn flat had to eat something), John called Lestrade.

"Hey, mate. What's up?"

"Listen, Greg, how much longer is the ban in place for Sherlock?"

"John..."

"Please. How much longer?"

"I honestly don't know."

"Fuck. Greg, listen, he needs something. Anything. Can you send over cold cases? I don't care how old they are. Something."

"Christ, John, is he that bad?"

"He's not doing anything."

"I didn't think he'd be back to the drugs, not with you around, if that's what you mean."

"No, I mean, he's not doing _anything_. He's shut off. He just stays on the couch. He's not playing the violin. He's not pacing. He hasn't experimented on the milk. He's even sleeping. It's... God, Greg, it's fucking terrifying to watch. I can't handle it."

"I don't know what I can do, John..."

"Please. I'm literally begging you here. I'll make it up to you somehow. We can work something out. Free medical treatment. Anything. Just, for fuck's sake, Greg, I can't handle it anymore. It makes my skin crawl to watch him just... waste away."

"I'll bring over a few files tonight."

"Oh, ta, mate. Really. Thank you so much. Whatever you can give him."

"You owe me."

"Anything."

"See you tonight."

When Lestrade showed at the flat that night, John was in the middle of making dinner. Sherlock hadn't moved from his spot on the couch except to shower and switch into a new pair of pajamas when John mentioned that his hair was getting so greasy, it was sticking to his head. Always attack the vanity. That's the best course of action for dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

The second he saw Lestrade, Sherlock was up and off the couch.

"Please, for the love of all that is good in the world, tell me the ban is lifted."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at John, who shrugged in a way that clearly said 'I told you so.'

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know how much longer the ban is going to be in place."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I said those things. Please, I need something. I need to come back. I'll even be nice to Anderson, just please, I need to come back."

"Sherlock-."

"Please-."

"Let me finish a fucking sentence, Sherlock!" Lestrade snapped and Sherlock sank back down onto the couch cushions. "Thank you. Sherlock, I'm going to try to push it through faster. I talked to the chief today, and he's warming back up to the idea. Until then, I brought you some cold cases to look through. I'm not sure if you'll find anything-."

"I'll take them. Whatever you've got."

Lestrade handed over the case files and Sherlock took to them eagerly, opening the first file with so much enthusiasm that he almost ripped the folder that was holding it together. Lestrade stayed for a beer while John finished up dinner.

"Care to stay tonight?"

"No, thanks though. I've been heading back to the gym recently and I want to get there before it gets too late or I'll never manage to keep up with my routine."

"Ah, right, gotta buff up now that you're back on the market, eh?"

"Oh, shut up. Thanks for the beer, and let me know how he's doing, alright?"

"Sure."

"Especially if there's any... danger nights, yeah?"

"Of course," John lied smoothly and ushered Lestrade to the door. "Let us know the second you have a case he can work, alright?"

"I will. Bye, Sherlock."

"Bye, Greg, and thanks for these," came the response that had both men stopping and turning to stare at the detective, then back at one another.

"The second I get something, I swear I'll call," Lestrade said seriously.

"Please do. See you then."

The flat was silent again, except for the sounds of John in the kitchen and Sherlock flipping through case files. It was almost as though things had returned to normal. It took half an hour for Sherlock to solve the first one, an hour for the second. John sat in his chair, reading a new book (since he could, now that Sherlock was distracted and no longer prone to shouting out the ending at him). It was almost midnight before he realized he hadn't heard Sherlock's muttering or exclamations in a while and looked up.

The man was slumped over the coffee table, his head resting on an open file, mouth slightly parted, fast asleep.

John shook his head. The down time must have allowed his body to resume its natural cycle again. Sherlock would have to work at it again, getting his body to respond well under the lack of sleep as it usually did, but for now, John's instincts were all medical. It was a chance for Sherlock to catch up on some of his missing hours. His current sleeping position could be problematic, though...

John set his book down on the table and walked over to the man.

"Sherlock," he whispered and touched his shoulder. "Come on, time to get to bed."

"But... there's cases..." came the mumbled reply.

"You won't be able to solve them if you are sleeping on the paperwork, now will you? Come on, up you go..."

John walked Sherlock to his bedroom and pulled back the covers, waiting until Sherlock was tucked under them.

"This is so inconvenient."

"You get used to it, Sherlock. You're only human after all."

"Boring."

"Go to sleep."

Perhaps, John thought, a little bit of laziness was okay every now and then.

It didn't last long, however. Lestrade showed up at the flat a week later, stress radiating off of him.

"Triple homicide, second one this week. We could use some help."

Sherlock went from pajamas to suit and Belstaff in just over two minutes. John had barely enough time to put his tea in the sink, fetch the Sig, and get his own coat on before Sherlock was bustling him into a taxi and they were on their way.

"It's probably not appropriate to be as excited as you are while we're on the way to the scene of a triple homicide, you know," John said, fighting back his own smile. He had missed the cases too, the puzzles, the running, the heroics, the fun. Sherlock was just worse at hiding it than he was.

"John, my first case back, and there are _three_ bodies. Three! It's better than Christmas. God, I hope it's bloody. I hope it's clever. I want this one to go on for a while."

At the cabbie's startled look, John shot him an apologetic smile.

"Just remember, no laughing at crime scenes."

Their shared look lasted less than 5 seconds before they were both dissolved into giggles that only turned into outright laughter as they pulled up to the crime scene. Even Anderson's idiocy and Donovan's mouth couldn't dampen the mood.


	5. Greed

John was off on another date.

He had lasted roughly 9 weeks (well, 59 days, but it wasn't as though Sherlock was counting or anything) after his breakup with Sarah before resuming his usual crash course of attempted one night stands that unanimously ended with him sitting on the couch at Baker Street, next to Sherlock, bitching about the event.

Sherlock tried not to examine his own reactions to these events too closely. The Incident was a constant buzzing in the back of his brain of how close he had come to losing John, how much he wanted (alright, fine, _needed_) the man around, and he couldn't risk his personal feelings interfering in whatever strange brand of intimacy was slowly growing between them.

But it was quite hard to ignore: the hurt as John got ready, the emptiness when he walked out the door, the _waiting_, the triumph when John trudged back up the steps, the guilt at feeling happy about the failure, the need to comfort, protect, keep him safe...

That was the strangest one for Sherlock. He had encountered it with John before, of course. On cases, wanting to run just a bit faster so that he could get the brunt of whatever the criminal they were chasing had to offer. Playing soft melodies on the violin that would ease John out of his nightmares. After one particularly interesting case where John managed to get into a fight with a man who liked using a wickedly sharp knife on his victims, Sherlock nearly killed the man with his own knife. How dare he put his hands on John? What right did he have?

It was stupid, really. John was a soldier, for fuck's sake. He had killed plenty of men, including one in an effort to protect Sherlock's life. He was not incapable. He was _extraordinary_.

That just made Sherlock want to protect him even more.

But if Sherlock stopped to think about it (something he tried anything he could think of to keep himself from doing so), he knew it went deeper than just an urge to protect the man.

He would study John as they sat in the living room and John watched the telly or read a book. He would catalog every movement, facial expression, lick of the lips, glance- dissecting them. He wanted to take John apart just to put him back together again. He wanted to wipe the traces of every stupid woman who turned him down for a second date of the contours of his lips. He wanted to erase their memories from John's brain as surely as he wanted to stop him from going out at all. He hated seeing John leave, on dates, to work, out with Greg. He wanted him at 221B all the time.

He wanted to possess him.

Surely that couldn't be a healthy compulsion to have about your flatmate.

It was another one of those nights, though, and this time it was even worse. This had been the second date. John had worn his favorite jumper, the one that actually didn't drain the color from his face, brought out a new cologne that at least smelled better than the last one, and even added product to his hair. He had said they were going to dinner then out to the theater. Told Sherlock not to expect him back. He was so hopeful.

Sherlock had wanted to shake him before he left. The woman wasn't going to be taking him back to her place. She wasn't going to go on a third date. She was already interested in another man. It was obvious from the texts on John's phone that she had lost interest somewhere between agreeing to a second date and the follow through on that promise. It would end in another failure.

This time, Sherlock had set out two glasses and the bottle of whisky on the table in the living room, preparing for John to return home even more lost than usual.

The date lasted until 20:30 given the distance from the theater to the flat and John's arrival home at precisely 21:00. Intermission, then. A fine time to tell someone you wanted to leave.

"Why is there whisky on the table?"

"Because you prefer it to beer when you've had a particularly trying day."

"Yes, but I wasn't even home yet. How did you know to set it out? Were you hoping I'd fail?"

"You didn't fail, John. I knew what was going to happen and prepared accordingly."

"You knew she would ditch me at intermission? Why didn't you fucking say something?"

Sherlock hadn't realized how frustrated he was with John until those words were shot in his direction.

"I didn't know it would be intermission precisely, but yes, I knew the second date wouldn't work out for you. I didn't tell you that I noticed the text messages from her when you loaned me your phone the other day. I didn't tell you that it was clear she was interested in someone else. I didn't tell you that her IQ was barely high enough to keep a child intrigued, let alone you. I didn't tell you anything because every single time I've warned you about a date, you brush me off. You don't listen. I'm sorry that I finally started listening to the things you wanted from me and backed off, but please, John, don't take your anger at her out on me because I was willing to sit here and drink with you to make you feel better and you know how I feel about the way alcohol slows my thinking down. Now, take off your damn coat, sit down, and tell me all about how much of a rotten bitch she was to you so I can act surprised like I always do."

"Oh, don't try to pretend like you actually care. We both know that you aren't capable of that. Just fuck off."

That was not the reply Sherlock had been expecting. He wasn't prepared for John to turn right back around and walk out of the flat and down the stairs and back out onto the street. He wasn't prepared for the pain that grew in his chest, spread out along his limbs, worked to shut down his mind until all he could think about was John.

John. The man who didn't seem to have an umbrella to fend off the rain the thunder in the distance was threatening.

John. The man who had looked more hurt and depressed than angry when he came home.

John. The man who wanted someone to hold him, to want him, to care for him, wanted it so much so that he chased around a string of dates that he knew were just going to fail.

Who was so fucking blind that he couldn't see that the reason Sherlock didn't interfere was because he did actually care.

Who had come home only to be ripped into by the one person who usually offered some sort of comfort in these situations.

_Yes, that was such an amazingly effective way to show someone that you cared about their situation,_ Sherlock mentally berated himself. It was precisely what he needed, one more person brushing him off, getting frustrated with him. _Couldn't you have just kept a level head? Been rational? You're always so fucking good at being rational until it is actually relevant to your life, then it all goes to hell_.

The thunder clap was louder this time, closer, and the steady beat of rain against the windows was a sign that the storm had finally reared its head.

And John was caught out in the middle of it, angry, depressed, frustrated, and without an umbrella.

"Fuck," Sherlock cursed.

He pulled his jacket on and took the umbrella from where it leaned against the wall on the way out. It was big enough for two, at least, so it would be more than adequate for a hunt for a pissed off ex-army doctor.

He followed John's usual path for his walks, walking faster than normal to make up for the head start John had on him. The rain was getting vicious now, the lightning brightening up the sky, turning everything into alien silhouettes for a split second before the thunder roared.

One of those silhouettes was a certain doctor, huddled underneath the awning of a shop that did little to keep all the rain off of him. He was soaked through, huddled up in his coat for any remaining warmth, and didn't even see Sherlock approaching. He only looked up when the umbrella came up to block off the rest of the water from them both.

"What are you doing here?" he spat.

"I saw that you didn't have an umbrella. I was hoping to avoid you getting soaked through, but I was... well, it took me a minute to get myself together and come after you. By then, the rain had started."

"Don't pretend. You wanted to poke at me more. Rub in that my date was a failure, just like all the rest of them have been, and that you knew all along that it would be-."

"I wasn't trying to rub anything in, John. Contrary to what you seem deluded into thinking, I do actually have emotions. I care about you. You asked me not to interfere, so I didn't. I was only doing as you asked. I've been trying to be more compromising with you. I didn't even text you on these last few dates since you told me how much it bothers you. I've been making an effort. The whisky was just so you didn't have to fetch it yourself when you got home. The two glasses were because I know you don't like to drink alone. I was trying to do my best to make it hurt a little less. I must have misjudged my actions. I'm sorry for the miscalculation."

John's shoulders had slumped, the tension faded completely out of them, and he sighed.

"There's no need for you to apologize. I overreacted. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I know... I know you care. Gods. It wasn't even going anywhere with her. I knew it. I saw the signs, I just didn't want to believe them. I don't know why I try. I can never stay focused on them long enough to make a real connection. It's all so boring."

"Then why do you keep trying?"

John opened his mouth to respond then closed it with a shake of his head. "I don't know. Never mind. Can we get home now? I think I could use that drink."

Sherlock wanted to press, but held his tongue. John was coming home, with him. They would sit together, drink together, relax. It was normal, their routine.

And so what if three glasses of whisky in, John was comfortable enough to do something not in their routine- resting his head on Sherlock's chest (his shoulder was too bony, according to the doctor) and Sherlock didn't make a move to push him away? So what if Sherlock let John drift off to sleep there after readjusting to a position that wouldn't make John's shoulder ache in the morning? So what if Sherlock caught himself muttering things like, "You're mine," and, "No one can have you," and "I'll tie you down if you think about going on another date with some woman who is going to hurt you and who certainly is not me because you are mine and no one else can change that?"

Sherlock was greedy. This was something John would have to learn to live with.


	6. Wrath

**_Alright, for this chapter, I played with the order of the cases in the show. Baskerville happened before Belgravia which happened before The Great Game. There's also only one chapter left after this, and guess what Sin that one is? I'm going to try to have it posted tonight to make up for my lack of an update yesterday._**

**_I also have an idea for a retelling of this story from John's perspective using the Seven Heavenly Virtues. Please, let me know what you think of that so I know if there are people out there who would be interested in reading it. Thanks so much!_**

There were several things that absolutely infuriated Sherlock Holmes.

The first is probably obvious: stupidity. People asking stupid questions. People who are ignorant. People who don't pay attention to the evidence right in front of them. People who leap to conclusions. People who don't observe, who don't think before they open their mouths, who don't take the time to suss out answers for themselves. Just stupidity in general, really.

Donovan and Anderson were two constants that grated this particular nerve at every single crime scene they managed to appear at.

The second? People who put on acts to impress or benefit others and fail at it. He wasn't one to judge too harshly, of course, not when he could pull out a disguise in a heartbeat. He could charm a grieving widow, con the best of con men, and weasel information out of an MI6 officer as if it were child's play. The thing is, he's good at it. The people who try and fail and get mad that they failed were the ones who aggravated him. If you're going to do something, go all the way. Immerse yourself in the characterization. Embrace it. If a high functioning sociopath could pull off bereaved, a normal person shouldn't have a problem. And acting to benefit someone? To spare their feelings? That was simply pathetic.

(When he puts on an act to keep John from worrying about him is, of course, an entirely different scenario. He's doing it to preserve a business relationship, a friendship, The Work that they share. Nothing truly sentimental there. Of course not.)

Another pet peeve of Sherlock's is people who chew with their mouth open, but that's not one that needs much expounding upon. It's disgusting. That's all.

One that seemed ironic even to him, the man who had willingly went and purchased a baggie of cocaine just a few months prior, was the anger that came at other people giving him mind altering substances without his knowledge. He found it even more amusing when he took into consideration the fact that he didn't hold the same reservations with others.

Baskerville was one of those incidents. The gas with hallucinogenic properties, making him doubt his sanity... Well, he certainly wasn't upset to see the man get blown up, that's for sure, but he had drugged John on purpose. He supposed that said something about his personality, the desire to be in control of himself and wanting to strip that control from others, but it wasn't important.

But the worst one, the absolute worst thing that you could do to piss off Sherlock Holmes?

Hurt someone he cares about.

Caring for people didn't happen often for Sherlock. Those who managed to get themselves onto that elite list were immensely lucky. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John.

(Mycroft, though he'd rather shoot himself in the foot than admit that out loud.)

The first time Sherlock met Mrs. Hudson, it was to ensure her husband- the abusive, alcoholic bastard- went to jail and stayed there for the rest of his life. When the men broke into the flat, roughed up Mrs. Hudson looking for a phone she had no right knowing even existed, and thought to use her as leverage against him, Sherlock was reminded quite vividly of the black eye and the broken wrist and the busted lip that Mr. Hudson had delivered on his now ex-wife. He was long since dead, of course, but the man in their flat? Well...

He fell out of a window. Seven times.

Damn shame it wasn't more than that, but Sherlock would take what he could get.

There was a different sort of anger that appeared during Moriarty's game. It was one thing to play a game with Sherlock Holmes. He could handle himself, navigate the rules, manipulate them to his advantage. But that old woman? The blind woman, dying in an apartment, alone except for the dozen other people that lost their lives in that same explosion? The anger Sherlock felt was anger for the helpless, the defenseless, the innocent bystanders. He supposed this was John's influence at play, an unexpected factor that interfered with his thinking.

When he shut it out, John called him a machine, walked out. He didn't understand that the game needed to be played within certain parameters. He could explain it all, after the meeting with Moriarty at the pool. By the end of the night, the game would be over- one way or the other- and John would have to understand that.

Another one of Sherlock's pet peeves? Not knowing the rules of a situation. This time, however, he was on the losing side.

John walked out, wrapped in a jacket that was not his own and a vest loaded with enough plastic explosives that there wouldn't be enough left for an urn, and that's if they managed to scrape him off what would be left of the room once it crumbled around them. His face was busted up, a bruise forming on one cheek. His knuckles were bruised, some cut open, so he fought back.

The pride Sherlock felt then was all for the doctor, but he couldn't focus on that. The rules had changed. The game was truly personal now.

Jim from IT. Molly's very gay boyfriend. James Moriarty.

This was rage unlike anything Sherlock had ever experienced. John was his. It didn't matter that the feelings he had were irrational, surprising, ridiculous, painful, terrifying, unwanted, immense- they simply were, and there was no way Sherlock was going to let that bastard walk away from them alive, not after putting his John through this sort of hell.

The rules changed again; Moriarty left.

The vest was on the ground, at the other end of the pool. The single sniper light vanished. The game was over.

The relief was immediately replaced by dread again as Moriarty, his laugh, his attitude, his fucking Westwood suit sauntered out again. He'd kill them anyway, he said. It was too good of an opportunity to miss.

Sherlock took a shaky breath and looked at John.

John, who still couldn't observe everything at crime scenes but who could read Sherlock like an open book.

John, who nodded once, giving silent permission for Sherlock to do whatever was necessary.

So he lowered the gun to the vest on the ground. He noted a small motion of Moriarty's hand, a pained expression on his face when nothing happened, fear.

He was sure he had never seen anything more beautiful than that expression. He cataloged it as a memory to go back to on cold winter nights when he needed a different sort of pick-me-up than what whisky could provide. He would revel in it for eternity.

Then Mycroft's men swarmed in, 10 in all, and Moriarty was on his knees, a gun pointed to the back of his head as he was put into handcuffs. There was Mycroft himself, 3-piece suit, umbrella, and all.

"Can I have a moment with him, brother?" Sherlock asked, surprising anyone who knew both men with his use of the fraternal term.

"Not alone, no."

"Oh, that won't be necessary."

Sherlock walked over and took Moriarty by the hair, tilting his head back and forcing him to make eye contact.

"Come over to gloat, hm?" the man asked, his voice shaking in a manner that obviously upset him.

"No. There's nothing to gloat about. I just wanted to tell you that it might be a good idea, if you manage to get out of my brother's grasp alive, to tell your colleagues that interfering with my life is one thing. It's fine. I honestly don't think I could care less.

"But if you ever think that it is a good idea to come after the ones I care about again, I will take you apart, bit by bit. I will end you. Is that understood?"

"Oh, has the little detective discovered that he does have a heart after all? How dull."

"No, that's where you're wrong."

He paused, then said something he never thought he would utter in his entire life.

"Caring doesn't make you dull, it makes you painfully sharp. It makes you vicious. It makes you deadly. If I were you, I would thank Mycroft here for sparing your life for the time being. Goodness knows that I wouldn't have been nearly as kind without his interference."

He brought the butt of the gun that was still in his hand down across Moriarty's temple, knocking him unconscious. He turned around before he had even hit the floor, pocketed the gun, gave a quick thanks to Mycroft, and then he was leading John out of the building and on to the main road where he hailed a cab to take them back to Baker Street.


	7. Lust

_**Well, this is the last chapter. I hope you all enjoyed it. Please, give me some feedback on whether or not you would like to read John's perspective on the whole thing so I know if I should start it before moving onto my next idea. Thanks so much for all your comments, kudos, and feedback. I really appreciate all of it.**_

_**Find me on tumblr at xstarxchaserx . tumblr . com**_

_**I don't bite, I promise, and I love company!**_

The warm feeling of home wrapped around Sherlock when he stepped inside the flat. The pool seemed so far away just then, but he could feel the memory pressing at him, demanding to be analyzed, cataloged. He just wasn't sure he could face it.

"Sherlock, will you please answer me?" John said as he took his coat off and hung it on the rack next to Sherlock's.

"What?"

"I asked if you were okay. You haven't said anything since we left the pool. You even paid for the taxi."

"Of course I'm fine."

"Are you sure? Moriarty... he was... well, he was a challenge for you, right? A game? You enjoyed it well enough, and now it's over..."

Sherlock turned, finally, to look at John. He didn't see any hints of laughter or sarcasm in his expression. It was a genuine inquiry.

"Are you asking if I'm upset that Moriarty, the man who just strapped a-," my voice cracked and I cleared my throat before continuing, "a bomb to your chest is, at this very moment, being processed by MI6?"

John simply shrugged. "You like interesting things. He kept you interested. Nothing has that kind of hold over you."

"You really are an idiot."

John went from shaken, scared, and passive to red with anger in less than a second. "What? What was that?"

"I said you're an idiot. Or blind. One or the other."

"What on earth are you getting at? I know I'm nothing like you, all formulas and deductions and knowledge of just about everything, but I'm a doctor for fuck's sake. I'm not stupid, and I would really like it if you stopped treating me like I was! What are you doing?" The last part came out as more of a strangled noise than anything else.

As he was talking, Sherlock had stepped closer and closer, backing him against the now closed door to their flat.

"I'm never letting you out of my sight again."

"What?"

"Stop saying that. You aren't deaf. Stupid, yes. Blind, yes. But I don't mean those things intellectually. You are more brilliant than most of the people I have associated with in my life. I wasn't expecting it when I first met you. I thought you would be easy to figure out, a puzzle with an obvious solution that would take maybe a week or two to work through. Then you shot a man. I upped the figure to a month. I thought the body parts would be too much, or maybe the poisoned milk. Nope. Perhaps stealing your gun would have been enough to break you? No, not that either. I ruined at least 80% of your relationships, took you on several illegal searching expeditions through peoples' homes, drugged you in Baskerville, got you kidnapped by a madman, and yet... here you are. What does that say about me, John? What does it say about you?"

Before John could answer, Sherlock continued. "It says that I was wrong, John. Do you know how rare that is? And you... It says that you are extraordinary. My entire life has been boring, and then you were here. You never did what I expected. You always threw me off. How can you possibly be stupid enough to think that Moriarty was the only one who had ever enthralled me? Did you really miss the way I paid close attention to you? Did you really not see it? I guess I can't really blame you. It wasn't until after that last date you went on, the one where you mistook my actions as deliberately cruel toward you, that I realized I never wanted you to be with anyone else. I wasn't just jealous anymore, I was greedy. I wanted you all to myself. I didn't expect that to work out, though. I didn't say anything, I kept it all to myself, because that was not something you needed. You, of all people, do not deserve someone as fucked up as I am.

"But seeing you tonight, John? With that vest and the fear in your eyes and the total trust you placed in me to end Moriarty by any means necessary? I can't handle the thought of anyone else having that. Please, John, please tell me you'll stay. I'm not much, I know, but I can try, I'm willing to try, just... please..."

The silence stretched for a solid minute, a little more, before John reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock raised his eyes, met John's gaze.

"I thought you were married to your work."

"You've become a part of my work. I can't imagine solving a case without you anymore."

"That's doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything. I've never worked with anyone as closely as I've worked with you. I've never wanted someone to stay."

John's pupils were dilated, his breath was faster than normal, Sherlock could see his pulse thudding in his neck-.

No, he couldn't risk drawing any conclusions from what he was seeing. What if he was wrong?

What if he was right?

"Oh, you idiot," John half breathed.

Then there were lips pressing against Sherlock's and his entire world flipped itself on its head. He hadn't actually been expecting it to go well. He had expected John to leave, to walk out, to never return.

This was infinitely better.

Sherlock recovered from the shock quickly, taking control of the kiss and properly pushing John back against the door. He really was an idiot. He thought it would all be like it was when he was using, fast, hard, disgusting, boring, but this sort of kissing, this sort of feeling was so much more than anything he had done before. How could he have not known that he wanted this so badly? Wanted John so badly?

It wasn't until John's fingers had started at the buttons of his shirt did Sherlock realize that his suit jacket was on the ground. He played catch up quickly, taking off John's jumper, undoing the buttons on his shirt, pulling it off to reveal a t-shirt underneath, the sight of which made him growl.

John chuckled into the kiss. "Jesus. What are we doing?"

"Hopefully each other. Soon."

John pulled back then, his hands at Sherlock's elbows where his shirt had gotten bunched up before John could pull it off all the way. Sherlock expected him to laugh, that had been the point, but instead he was met with a very serious expression. "Are you sure about this, Sherlock? Really sure? I don't want you to be doing this because you feel responsible for Moriarty's actions. I don't want you to regret this."

Sherlock brought a hand up to cradle John's jaw, the other around the back of John's neck, pulling him close so their foreheads rested against each other. "John, I haven't regretted a single second of my life since I met you in the lab at Bart's. This won't change that."

That time when they kissed, it was a slow burn, not the blaze that had ignited the first time. Sherlock's shirt made it to the ground, John's hands explored the newly bared skin, and Sherlock tugged at the hem of the t-shirt that was still obstructing his view.

John's body had gotten softer since he had left the military. There was still the faint outline of the muscles that were once defined, faded scars left over from brushes with insurgents, and the mark that had brought him limping into Sherlock's life. The web of scar tissue blossomed out from his shoulder. Sherlock knew there would be a matching exit wound, but there would be time to explore that later. For now, he was content kissing the one he could see, outlining the divots and dips with his lips and tongue. John's deep sigh was all the confirmation Sherlock needed to know it had been far too long since someone chose to explore the man properly. He couldn't wait to fix that.

"Bedroom?" came John's hesitant question.

"Yours or mine?"

"Yours is closer."

"Good choice."

They kicked off shoes and pulled off socks and undid belts and flies by the time they made it to the bed. They also had to stop twice, once for John to press Sherlock against the wall and kiss him thoroughly, starting an exploration of his collar bones with a hot flash of tongue and teeth, a second time for Sherlock to trail his fingertips just under the edge of John's pants, brushing the light dusting of hair that sat there as he kissed down John's neck, leaving the first of many faint marks. When they did stumble into bed, they were down to just their pants. John rolled Sherlock onto his back and paused, looking at Sherlock intently enough for him to start to get uncomfortable.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this. Just wanted to touch you. You're absolutely, maddeningly beautiful. You know that right?"

"It's nice to hear someone else say it," Sherlock said half a second before he realized that it actually was nice to hear someone else say that and mean it.

"Well, I promise that I will never stop saying it, okay?"

Sherlock wanted to ask if that meant that John saw himself staying forever, but the slow drag of John's lips against his own made the words evaporate. Those same lips traced Sherlock's carotid artery, over his collar bones again, down his sternum, across, and-.

"Oh," he gasped, sucking in a deep breath as John's lips then teeth started their exploration of his nipples. He forgot how much of an erogenous zone they could be, it had been far too long.

John's fingers trailed over his ribs, counting each one and tutting slightly in a way that made Sherlock smile.

"Ever the doctor, John."

"Someone has to look after you."

John's fingers moved lower, over the trail of hair that lead down into Sherlock's pants. Then they were working over the fabric there, brushing against Sherlock's erection, tracing the outline and rubbing a thumb against the small wet spot that had formed there.

"Can I take these off?" John asked.

"Please."

John pulled them off, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's cock as soon as they were gone. Electricity shot up Sherlock's spine making his back arch. He pushed his hips up into John's touch, noting the lips that were trailing lower and lower and then...

"Ah, fuck, John. Your mouth..."

Sherlock felt John smile but soon lost his ability to focus on anything. He tried to gather all the data being thrown at him, the way John's head bobbed, the way his hair felt, the moans of pleasure that were not just coming from Sherlock, but it was a lost cause. When he was close, Sherlock tugged at John's hair, pulling him up and off before he came and flipping John over onto his back this time. He repeated John's same trail of kisses and bites, relishing in the salty tang of sweat and something that was distinctly John.

It had been a very long time since he had used his hands or mouth on anyone, but the noises John made when Sherlock's lips closed around his cock made him wonder why he hadn't just done this with John sooner.

"God, more, Sherlock, please..."

Sherlock replaced his lips with his hand, "What do you want, John? What do you want me to do?"

"Do you, ah, do you have lube here? If not, it's fine, I just-."

But Sherlock was moving already, keeping one hand moving on John's cock as he rummaged around in the bedside table and returning with a tube of lubricant. He stopped stroking John just long enough to pour some onto the fingers of one of his hands and set the tube to the side. Hopefully he'd need it again, he thought as he wrapped his lips around John's cock again. He brought his fingers up, pressing one slowly into John.

"Oh, fucking hell Sherlock. That's... God. I've thought about those hands of yours far more often than I should have."

Sherlock had the opinion that if you could form proper sentences, something wasn't going well enough, so he added a second finger. John whimpered and cursed then dissolved into half formed words and moans when Sherlock curled his fingers and found his prostate. He added a third finger when John was ready, working him open slowly, waiting for John to ask-.

"Sherlock, please, more. I want... I want to feel you, more of you. Please."

Sherlock kissed him as he removed his fingers slowly, adding a condom and more lube to his cock and lined himself up with John's entrance.

"John, please, look at me," Sherlock said and John opened his eyes. "Do you really want this?"

"Yes. Please, Sherlock. Yes."

Sherlock took his time, inching in slowly, not wanting to push either of them too far, too fast. He could see the faint pain etched into John's face, kissed each crease, then his lips, deeply this time until he was fully inside of him. He rested his forehead against John's for a moment before rolling his hips. John's moan had him repeating the motion, harder this time, and again.

It didn't take long for John's hips to start moving to meet Sherlock's thrusts. The feeling, the sight of it... Sherlock knew he wasn't going to last much longer. John- the mind reader that he always was with Sherlock- seemed to know. His hand wrapped around his cock, moving in time with Sherlock's thrusts.

"Oh, fuck. Jesus. Sherlock, I'm going to-."

"Please, cum for me John. God, I want to see it. Please."

John was already cumming, his muscles clenching down around Sherlock, his semen covering his chest, and Sherlock lost himself in it.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed there, slowly softening while John ran his fingers through the damp curls that were sticking to Sherlock's head, but he didn't move until he realized John probably couldn't breathe with him resting on his chest. He pulled out slowly, noting that John still winced, and managed to get the condom into the wastebasket next to the bed before rolling over and sprawling next to John.

"I told you that you're extraordinary, right?" he asked and was greeted by a warm chuckle from John.

"Yes, but I'm thinking now that it was all an elaborate scheme to get me into bed with you."

"Well, now that I can attest to the fact that you are an amazing shag..."

The pillow hit Sherlock square in the face, surprising a rather undignified squeak out of him. Before he could complain, John was wrapped around him, head resting on Sherlock's chest.

"I hope you weren't planning on kicking me out of your bed tonight. Yours is so much more comfortable than mine is."

"Trust me, John, you can stay as long as you like."


End file.
